I have done this walk a thousand times—to meet with healers, to consult with stewards, to deal with emissaries from the Marches.
Never like this.
Never with a viyella waiting on the other side of the door.
My hand closes on the carved handle.
The sigil of interlocking roots and circles hums faintly beneath my palm, as if The Barrow itself is watching.
“Cowardice ill-suits you,” I mutter at myself, and push the door open.
She stands near the center of the room, and for a moment all the air leaves my lungs.
Alina.
My Oona.
She has chosen a gown the color of rich soil after rain—dark brown, nearly black, with a subtle sheen that catches the glow-globes and turns them to molten shadow along her curves.
The bodice hugs her closely, lifting and framing the bronzed swell of her breasts until my mouth goes dry.
Soft, layered skirts fall from her waist, moving with every breath like water over rock.
When she shifts her weight, the fabric parts just enough to reveal a long, strong leg, the muscles flexing beneath smooth skin.
For a heartbeat, all I can hear is the thunder of my own pulse.
“Is—is this okay?” she asks, fingers curling in the fabric at her hips. “Brianne said to choose, and this one just kind of called to me, but if it’s wrong for the ceremony or my body type?—”
“You look resplendent, Oona,” I say, the endearment escaping before I can stop it. “And as for your body type, I think perhaps you misunderstand the sheer perfection that is you.”
Her eyes widen slightly.
Then her lips curve.
“Resplendent perfection, huh?” she repeats, a faint flush rising in her cheeks. “That’s not a phrase I get a lot.”
“Then your previous acquaintances were morons,” I reply, moving toward her. “Come. Stand by the window, and I will show you your new home before I steal you away from it.”
Her gaze flicks past me to the balcony doors.
“New home,” she echoes softly, as if tasting the words.
I offer my hand.
She takes it.
Peace like I never imagined flows through me.
How can this be? Did the Fates really hide my soul mate in another world? Is this creature truly mine?
The stone under our feet hums, a low, pleased vibration.
I lead her to the open doors and out onto the narrow balcony.
The night wind curls around us, carrying the familiar scents of the Marches—wet earth, fresh-cut stone, the faint metallic tang of distant quarries, the green-laced sharpness of living roots.
Below, the terraces spread out in layers of soft light.
